A Small Change in The Script
by Top Hats and Other Items
Summary: On his one-thousand-five-hundred-and-sixty-fourth car crash, he questioned if he was doing the right thing. An AU with a time loop, a Good!Eobard, and an Alive!Harrison. No slash. Rated T just in case.
1. Chapter 1

He has killed them one-thousand-five-hundred-and-sixty-three times. Of those times, he has done this particular scenario seven-hundred-and-forty-four times. He knows how this goes.

First, the preparation. Tips to the police redirected their focus exactly five-and-a-half miles elsewhere. Roadblocks were placed behind the scientists when they turned away from the Big Belly Burger two blocks from their fate. Pedestrians were distracted with various ruses.

(a fire, gang shoot-out, and three bank robberies were spaced two to four streets away from each other. All of them commenced roughly two minutes and fifteen seconds after the blocks were placed. He was especially careful to emphasize to the participants the importance of timing. He did not want the couple to see these events. He absolutely abhorred any repeat of the one-hundredth-and-twenty-fourth, two-hundred-and-thirty-second, and four-hundred-and-seventh times.)

It was almost pathetic how easily he disrupted the camera feed in each intersection, playing a seven-years-five-months-and-six-days-old recording for three hours.

(he was caught on his five-hundredth-and-ninety-seventh on a whim. A tabloid reporter actually went through a year's worth of tapes and found the one he used that day).

Civilians were usually asleep at three in the morning. He made sure of that.

(the less said about the ninety-fifth time, the better. Teenagers are utter _imbeciles_.)

At this point, he was almost ready.

Unfortunately, he himself was a variable in all this. The Speed Force that once sang through his veins was a soft murmur. The strain of time travel and fighting with his Flash drained nearly every bit of his energy. Sometimes, he simply couldn't do more than hide his face, his eyes glowing in the dark. Most of the time, he did this with no Speed Force at all, with much planning and gnashing of teeth. The loss of the lightning he worked so hard for made those particular instances agonising.

(it still worked, if not as smoothly as he'd wish.)

Now, though, there was just enough. He took a breath, feeling the flow of air into his lungs. He could _hear_ the Speed Force thrumming in his ears, its whispers soothing his mind, grounding him. Closing his eyes, he let the breath go. He opened them, a spark of red lighting his cornea. They were here.

Showtime.

One of the things about being a speedster is that he can see everything, nanosecond by nanosecond. It was effortless, the observation. A dash forward, the bright flash of crimson lightning stunning the couple in the car. The sudden appearance of a man causing her to swerve into the road spikes. In losing control of the car, it flips right into a pole. The immovable object prevails against the driver's door, crushing it inward. She slams against the deadly metal. He could hear her neck _snap_. As the car falls down from the post he observes the light in Tess Morgan's eyes fade, her last thoughts of fear and panic and _I'mdeadI'msosorryHarrissonIloveyou—_

It was so easy.

The third time he did this, he laughed. His voice boomed in the silence, the crackling of flames and the disbelieving sobs of an injured man white noise in his ears. In thirteen years, nine months, and twenty two days, he will witness the birth of the Flash. And soon, he will mentor his greatest enemy. Soon, he will see the broken and angry gazes of Caitlin Snow and Cisco Ramon, maybe even have their blood on his hands (again). Soon, he will have his revenge on Barry Allen, _his_ Barry Allen, and escape from this ridiculous time loop.

Soon, he will be _home_.

On his one-thousand-five-hundred-and-sixty-fourth try, it doesn't seem so glorious now.

* * *

In hindsight, everything became infinitely more difficult when he decides to meet with the couple on his one-thousand-and-five-hundredth time.

(the urge to be sentimental about time travelling should always be quashed with extreme prejudice).

Going to a conference about the existence of tachyons as fourth-year physics enthusiast "Tom Cavanagh" was, in itself, nearly unbearable. He almost regretted stealing this body for a ticket into the premises. Enduring the mindless prattle of overconfident idiots not even close to the truth made him murderous. It was a wonder he didn't kill anyone that night. Yet, he reasoned, a word with the individual he will become had a sense of irony that amused him. Whoever came up with the idea of remaking yourself obviously didn't have (literally) taking bodies in mind. The thought made him genuinely chuckle, if morbidly.

Besides, it's about time he got to know the man he has emulated so thoroughly.

However, just as he was going talk to Harrison Wells, he bumps into Tess Morgan.

(and it all goes downhill from there.)

She wore a midnight black two-piece suit. It complemented her figure while hiding her muffin-top. Her walk was shaky, but adequate, in heels—it was apparent she didn't wear them often. Her complexion was mostly clear, her olive skin fair. Her neck was adorned with a charming gold necklace. She had dyed blonde hair, neatly and tightly wound into a bun, showing the diamond studs in her ears. Her dark blue eyes were sharp, almost cold. Yet, when he looked at her, she radiated with fire and life.

At that point, they haven't even spoken yet.

Once they start talking, he realizes (to his utter _lack_ of shock) she isn't the perfect human being Harrison believes her to be. It's one of the side effects of taking Harrison's body. Eobard takes his DNA; his blood-type; his age; and his memories. Bits and pieces came to him, and over the eternity he's spent in this time loop, he knows exactly what the scientist thought of Miss Morgan.

It was more than he ever wanted to know.

(that was the moment when he began to truly regret coming here)

Harrison once described Tess as whiskey with a touch of honey. A smirk would precede her grin, and closed eyes accompanied her smile. She spoke with an alto-pitched authority and laughed with a slight tenor-toned abandon. At home, she sang jazz tunes in the shower and ate Trix for breakfast instead of the healthier cereals. She hugged the people she loved mercilessly, crushing them him her arms. Whenever she came to her parent's farm, she would cart-wheel down the hill as her husband (fondly and exasperatedly) ran after her. The first time she met Harrison, she nearly clocked him over the head with an oxygen tank. She was stubborn as a mule, yet equally driven to do great things. She had the spark to inspire people. In his timeline, it was because of her that the particle accelerator got finished in 2020, instead of the predicted 2034.

A pity it's never fast enough. She is only human, after all.

(it's a blessing and a curse that she hasn't noticed anything off with this "Tom Cavanagh").

Then, almost abruptly, he is faced with Harrison Wells.

(her husband sees something, however. Something that should not be.)

Eccentric. Brilliant. Compassionate. That was how people knew Dr. Harrison Wells, an MD with a Ph.D in Physics, Mathematics, Engineering, and Chemistry. However, his real genius sprang from his ability to read people, measuring their potential in an instant. Eobard knew this quite well. Why else would he have hired Hartley in the original timeline, despite his prickly qualities? Or Cisco, in spite of his childishness? Even so, it was an experience to be on the receiving end of those pale blue eyes, analyzing him as they shook hands.

 _He sees through me_ , Eobard thought. He passes it off as awe to the couple.

(even though he's had practice with expressing emotion, it isn't effortless. Three months later, when Eobard took Harrison's identity, he sees his look of "wonder" and feels that something is _off his eyes are too blank his face calculated but he is sad why why who is this—_ )

They talk of little things, who he was and what they were working on (not the details, of course, as it was still beyond fourth-year physics enthusiast "Tom Cavanagh"). Harrison is brisk and to the point while Miss Morgan actually mulls over his various ideas. It was only when "Tom" ("sheepishly") speaks of his interests, such as a certain particle accelerator, when Harrison visibly brightens. After that, they talk about theories and the like, with Miss Morgan interjecting a comment or scoff every once in a while.

(the worst part was he actually enjoyed speaking to them.)

Just as he was about to leave, Miss Morgan gave him her card, wishing him the best in his studies. After a moment, so did Harrison, who handed his with a warm smile and a word to call him if he ever needed help.

Eobard, genuinely shocked, accepted the cards and thanked them.

(he would always regret coming here. But he couldn't bring himself to forget it.)

* * *

On his one-thousand-five-hundred-and-sixty-fourth car crash, he questioned if this was the right thing. Almost immediately, he rebuked himself.

 _These people are nothing to you! Nothing!_

His hand drifted to the cards in his pocket and took them out, careful to avoid removing his phone by accident. Strange. Why are they here? He remembered Harrison's warm smile; Miss Morgan's openhearted grin.

 _Getting sentimental again._ The voice in his head sighed dramatically. _Caring isn't an advantage, Eobard Thawne. It won't get you anywhere._

Placing the cards back in his pocket, he felt the device that would take Wells' body. He started to walk toward the concussed scientist. He was holding his ribs with one hand and checking for his wife's pulse in the other. His normally sharp and pale blue eyes were clouded with pain. He wasn't going to be conscious for long.

(with each step, he remembered Caitlin, Cisco, and Barry. Not his Barry, but the one he trained. Nor his Cisco, dead by his hand, but the one who lives. Not his Caitlin, driven insane with a control over ice that would make Captain Cold blush, but the one who moved on and found her husband. He remembered them, _all_ the variations of them, and he realized—)

 _Don't you want revenge? Justice? Barry Allen got you here, in this abominable time loop! It's only right that he gets you out!_

Justice. He closed his eyes. He suddenly felt very tired. What he has done, over, and over, and _over_ again—how can that be called _justice_?

 _Don't you want to go home?_

Before he could stop himself, he sighed. _What is home?_

The thought stopped him in his tracks.

As he loomed over the rapidly fading Wells, he re-evaluated all he's ever believed in. He re-examined his reasoning, his motivations and actions. As unbiased as he could be, he put himself on trial. Memory was his evidence and witness; logic, his jurist; and intellect, his judge. Fragments of a hundred thousand moments flashed in his mind's eye. Good or bad, he went through all of them to answer this question. This stupidly simple, undeniably important question that changed _everything_.

(in the end, two memories stood out in high relief: the picture of Team Flash, and the minutes before he took Harrison Well's body for the one-thousand-five-hundredth time.)

 _What is home?_

In that moment, he saw Wells hold Miss Morgan's dead hand tightly, as though it would bring her back. He was crying.

(his mask fell off on the one-thousand-five-hundredth car crash. He didn't notice until Harrison physically recoiled at the sight of "Tom Cavanagh." As Eobard took Harrison's body, he was hit by a wave of such raw _emotion_ that it almost choked him.)

The last thing Wells saw was the masked figure taking something out of his pocket.


	2. Chapter 2

Mercy left a strange taste in his mouth.

As Eobard changed out of his suit, he realized he still had the body of the twenty-two year old "Tom Cavanagh." He barked out a bitter laugh. Of course. He didn't switch back to his own body after the conference, and since he would always take Wells', he never noticed. It seems the time loop prefers him in this (younger, more naive) body. It made no sense. At all. He shook his head, almost in exasperation. As though this timeline wasn't convoluted enough already, now he has to somehow accomplish everything with a baby face.

He smiled humourlessly. At least there aren't any singularities. Yet.

(he remembered a _gunshot fear despair void of nothing_ _no pain in my arm no feeling as it ceases to exist so why am I screaming_ _—?_ )

After safely storing his suit, he changed into dull blue jeans, yellow Converse, and a black hoodie. Striding through the hospital as casualties from the various incidents he orchestrated hours ago kept the staff busy, he directed himself towards the scientist's room. When he reached Wells' door, he hesitated.

 _Why am I even here?_

Before he could answer that thought, he let himself in.

Thankfully, Wells was still unconscious. He stood at his bedside for a moment before checking Harrison's chart. Severe concussion and whiplash from slamming on the car door, minor cuts on his head and hands from the broken glass, and a cracked rib. All in all, not a bad state to be in. There were times when Eobard took Wells' identity from his dead body. Eobard shuddered. He almost preferred feeling like someone stabbed his heart instead of the overwhelming sense of _nothing_ that accompanied corpses.

He sat down and sighed, rubbing his face with one hand. _How is this going to work?_

Assuming Harrison even accepts his help on the particle accelerator, all the people stay the same, and events transpired at _basically_ the same pace, the answer depended on so many variables that it made his head _hurt_.

Yet, he didn't regret any of this.

 _Why am I even here?_

(a picture of Team Flash accompanied the question. He remembered all that they did together; the people they saved; the triumphs they earned; the defeats they endured. Feelings of _warmth happiness guilt pride fear love_ and a fierce, fierce protectiveness rose in him.)

He looked at Harrison. _He can't train them on his own,_ he thought.

The voice in his mind seemed to shake its head at him.

 _Why do you want to help him? To atone? To become a better person?_ The voice paused. _None of them will ever forgive you. You have too much blood on your hands_. It stopped, as though thinking.

 _It doesn't help that most of it is theirs._

Eobard looked down.

 _I know_. _But Harrison would be too gentle with Barry. Too kind. It is a luxury they can't afford._

 _What are you protecting them from?_

(Barry, broken and not breathing. Caitlin, a bloody mess in the room where Snart and Rory kept her. Cisco, heart attack from robotic bees. Barry, asphyxiating from potassium cyanide. Caitlin, shot by Eiling. Cisco, tortured by Eiling. Barry, frozen by Snart. Cisco and Caitlin, killed by a whammied Barry. Barry, blown up by Axel. Barry, helpless and unmoving without his powers. Barry _dead_ Caitlin _dead_ Cisco _dead_ _dead dead_ —)

 _Everything._

 _To what end?_

He closed his hands. What did he want?

 _I want them alive long enough for them to realize their full potential._

The voice seemed to look at him, materializing on the other side of Harrison's bed.

 _You won't be able to go home, then._

He held himself utterly still as he considered that thought. He emerged from a dull and emotionless void that glorified this century, the Age of Heroes. Escaping from the timeline he was born in, he travelled back to that golden age where he, Eobard Thawne, can see the Flash in all his grandeur. To be with his idol, watching and marvelling at his deeds, his virtues, his _legend_. That was his dream. It shattered him when he realized he was no hero, embittered him against the man he looked up to in his original, featureless, uniform timeline. He was the monster the scarlet speedster fought, an embodiment of everything that is _not_ Barry Allen; the exact opposite of the Flash.

Was it right, then, that he raged against his fate and became what he hated? Deluded and lost, he time travelled again to prove a point, that he _wasn't_ a villain, a monster, a murderer. He screamed and tore at the world that denied him what he wanted. He alienated the heroes he knew so well and became what he dreaded. The world owed him so much for turning him into what he despised—why not take what was due? Destroying what he loved seemed to be the best course of action at the time, almost purifying in nature. And the Flash, well, he knew he could do everything the scarlet speedster can do but better. If the Flash never existed, he would be the one memorialized. He would be the one they glorified and looked up to; his bloodied and dark legacy, gone. He had the power to wipe the slate clean: all he had to do was kill Barry. So, so easy. He has killed children before, he remembers. That his nemesis was supposed to be one of them was nothing to him.

Does this justify his murderous rage when he failed in that, too? His dark despair when he realized that he was trapped in a time loop? He remembers every single timeline he has altered; every failure, death, and role certain persons played in it. Was that why he wanted to atone? The weight of time, of memory, of actions done and repeated over and over and _over_ again. Will it be enough? Will it _ever_ be enough?

Balance needed to be kept in the world. He knew this well, accepted it as the way of the universe. Shadows exist amid beams of light; hope and failure, the sides of the same coin. He was the yin to the Flash's yang. He almost laughed at that metaphor. He read (eons upon eons ago) that yin was interpreted as "not belonging to this world." He was needed to challenge Barry, push him to the edge of his limits and beyond. He was created to be the darkness surrounding the Flash's light. After all, why else would he be stuck here?

There was—is—nothing waiting for him, in the past he escaped and future he wanted. There is only now.

 _No. I'm not going home._

He smiled sadly as he released the hope that fueled him for centuries.

 _You still haven't answered my question. Why?_

Eobard blinked. _Because they are mine_.

He sat quietly for a minute, his mind processing and planning what needs to be done.

(his numerous failures chased after each thought— the kind that actually restarted the time loop. They ran through his mind like wolves to carrion; punctuating each idea with a bloody end. Always, it included a dead Barry Allen, whether by meta-human or freak accident. Sometimes, the bodies of Caitlin and Cisco joined him.)

 _How is this going to work?_

(he knew he couldn't go through that again.)

He closed his eyes and sighed.

It seems "Tom Cavanagh" is going to be useful after all. There is no way Harrison is going to ignore an up and coming physicist with a special interest in particle accelerators. Especially if this physicist creates technology that isn't supposed to be invented for another decade. From that position, he can keep an eye on Harrison, guide him to Cisco and Caitlin. He might even have more time to do what was needed. It was a start.

When he opened his eyes, a spark of crimson lighting ran through his cornea.

 _It might not work. But I have to try. For them._

(suddenly, he remembered why he wanted to be here, in the 21st century.)

Eobard laughed softly. The lighting in his veins crackled sardonically with his mirth.

 _Who knew it would ever come to this?_

He stood up.

"Never," said Eobard quietly to Harrison Wells, " _ever_ mistake this, or anything else I do, as kindness."

The Wells in his mind, his adopted persona of a thousand lifetimes—the voice in his head— chuckled bitterly.

" _How could I?_ " he said. " _You killed my wife_."

Eobard gave a small smile to that.

(he wanted to be a hero.)

"Fair point."

* * *

Slowly, Harrison made his way back to the land of the living.

It took awhile. His dreams were fraught with nightmares. Sometimes, he saw red lightning and a yellow blur run, taunting him. Other times, he saw Tess lying dead in his arms. He would wake, fitfully, before a nurse "mercifully" increased his dosage of morphine. Once, he was aware that he had a visitor; a stranger. He wasn't awake for long, but in those few minutes of consciousness, he knew this person was talking to him.

When he finally (truly) woke up, the first thing he was aware of was the soft snores of Tina beside him.

 _Nothing hurts_ , he noted. _Mind sluggish. Smells like... limonene. Disinfectant. I'm... I'm in a hospital...?_

He opened his eyes.

As with any hospital, the walls were stark white. His room was sparsely adorned, several cards and flowers scattered haphazardly everywhere. Besides himself and Tina, there was no one else. He was attached to a heart monitor and an IV, the saline solution attached to his left arm. He tried to sit up, hissing at the sharp pain came from his side.

 _What...?_

"Harrison?" Tina blinked once before gasping. "You're awake! Thank God. I thought..."

"Tina...?" Harrison shook his head slightly before wincing. His head hurt. So did his neck, now that he thought about it. "You're... Aren't you're supposed to be at—"

"I was," Tina cut in quickly. "The meeting ended early. I came as soon as I heard."

"What happened?"

Tina's face became unreadable. "You don't remember?"

"Not much." Harrison rubbed his face. "A flash of red. Tess swerving. The car flipping." He frowned, thinking. "It gets hazy after that. I remember seeing a man in a yellow mask."

"Is that all?"

"Yes, I—" he blinked.

"Tina. Where's Tess?"

To her credit, she didn't flinch when he asked. Her grey eyes were stormy. She held his gaze for a moment before looking away.

He found himself breathing very carefully.

 _No._

"I'm so sorry, Harrison." Her voice broke. When she looked back at him, tears were streaming down her face.

She was crying. _Tina was crying._

He found himself holding her close as she wept. All he saw in his mind's eye was Tess.

(the vivid blue of her eyes, deep as the ocean _what why_ _—_ )

"Tina," Harrison breathed out, almost involuntarily. He opened his mouth and then closed it.

(—soft hair that smelled of apples and springtime _I don't understand_ _—_ )

"Why are you sorry?" There was a feeling in his chest, not quite despair or panic or fear.

(—her mellow laughter, ringing throughout the house _why is Tina crying_ —)

"Tess... Sh-She isn't coming back, Harrison."

(—the way they danced on their wedding night _Tess Tess Tess Tina is crying_ —)

"I don't understand."

(—the day on the beach, when they planned for the future and he told her his dream _help me please_ —)

Tina was still for a moment as she gazed at her best friend, as though steeling herself. Then, she wrapped her arms around him, mindful of his injuries.

"Tess is dead."

(—her fierce grin as they wrestle on the pale sands _I can't do this by myself_ —)

"Oh."

( _—_ he held her lifeless hand as tears streamed down his face, his sight dimming _I couldn't protect you I'm sorry I'm sorry_ —)

Another moment passed as she held him. He began to shake, his arms gripping her smaller body tightly. His head rested on her shoulder as Harrison Wells cried softly for his wife.


	3. Chapter 3

_Should there be birdsong here?_

He wondered that as he stood by her headstone. It was a bright and cold day, the snow lightly covering the soft, rolling hills around him. The chattering of a flock echoed in the open space, twittering about things beyond what mere humans know. The sound made him weary. People seemed to want these noisy avians to stay for the winter, and so left suet and birdseed on the trees. It would not take much effort to pretend that he was in a park, not a cemetery. White flecks of ice started to float from the sky. She loved playing in the snow, he remembered. If he tried, he could pretend she was still with him.

The birds continued to sing in the empty space.

 _No. There shouldn't be any birdsong or light. Not here, without her._

Harrison had no more tears left.

Two weeks had passed since the car accident. The police questioned him immediately the day after he woke up, and once more after that. They poked and prodded at his memory, looking at each other when he mentions red lightning and a yellow-masked figure. The detective in charge was surprisingly gentle with his queries. Harrison practically bristled with irritation. He didn't want _gentle_ ; he wanted Tess back. He wanted justice. Honestly, he wanted the man who killed his wife dead. It wasn't long until even he had no more patience left for them.

("I know what I saw, officer." "What you saw was impossible, Dr. Wells. You must know—" " _I know what I saw._ ")

What had happened _was_ impossible; he knew it. So was the fact that Tess was dead, from a man in yellow, shrouded in scarlet lightning. He sighed. He never thought a day would come when he would curse his intelligence so thoroughly. _Why doesn't any of this make sense...?_

("Why would I lie about this?" "I don't know. You tell me. I only know what the evidence says." "And what does it say?")

It wasn't long until the police (and the public) wrote the death off as an accident, turning their eyes toward new events, new incidents, new threats. Harrison didn't blame them; if he wasn't involved, he would've done the same. If he didn't remember what he saw, he would've believed the evidence. If he didn't see the person who killed his wife, he wouldn't be so adamant on saying what he _knew_ to be the (tragically ludicrous, because who kills people wearing such ridiculous clothes?) truth.

("That someone put a lot of effort into this.")

Tina was the only one who stood by him. He was glad. He didn't think he could stand losing anyone else so soon. While she didn't believe that Tess was killed by a man in yellow, she lent him her home, her companionship. He didn't—couldn't—go back to an empty house. Did he even want to try?

("What do you mean? And why would anybody _want_ to do this?" "I don't know. What I do know is that a lot of things happened the night your wife died. Fires. Bank robberies. All of which happened too close to each other to be a coincidence. And I do know that the paramedics were called in by an anonymous individual who wasn't found at the scene.")

Harrison realized he didn't even know what was engraved on his wife's headstone. Tina chose the quote that was etched onto the white marble, its font and decorations. She took care of everything, he realized belatedly, from the funeral and its preparations to taking care of him. He would have to apologize later, he decided, and make it up to her somehow. Maybe flowers? A cup of her favorite coffee? He snorted at himself. _The dilemmas of the living._

He wiped away the snow that gathered on the smooth rock before reading the inscription out loud.

("What are you implying, officer?" "Frankly? If this person wanted to kill you, he would've gotten away with it. There was no one else at the scene, no camera footage to speak of, and we were short-staffed with all the other incidents happening. There was no way we could've been there in time. So, why didn't he?")

"Home is wherever you are." Harrison felt his heart break a little more.

("I don't know. You tell me. I only know that I'm still here.")

Suddenly, he found the birds deafening. He cringed as a particularly loud squawk hurt his ears. He gritted his teeth. Silence was preferable right now. But, then again, maybe not. It was quiet, save for the flames, after the car flipped into the pole and crashed to the ground. It was too quiet when he woke, disoriented and hurt, next to his dead wife. Her hand was motionless when he grasped it clumsily, desperately, checking for a pulse. The world seemed to hold its breath as he cried, uncomprehending the disquieting stillness in his beloved. Yet, noise did not bring him comfort, either. When he woke in that stark hospital room, his mind was so loud when he realized that she wasn't coming back. Memories of him and Tess, alive and well and _laughing_ —

"Harrison?" Tina's voice broke into his thoughts. He turned. She was a few steps away from him. He wondered at how he missed her before dismissing the thought. The birds really were too noisy here.

"It's time to go," she said gently. Normally, he hated being treated like glass, but he could never get mad with Tina. Especially after all she has done for him. He offered her a small smile. He knew his smile was a broken thing, but it was all he had at the moment.

Maybe they were right to treat him like fragile glass. They didn't know what else will fall apart.

"Okay," he replied, and they left the birds to their singing.

* * *

As night fell, he visited her again. Hardened snow accentuated his steps, announcing his approach with a loud _crunch_. The sky was clear and dark, the air brisk enough for him to wear a thick coat and a scarf. Cold stars shone beside a burnished hook-moon, their soft beams lighting the way for him. He stood at the foot of her grave, looking at the simple marble that marked her place in the ground. In his hand, he held a lily.

"Home is wherever you are," he breathed, reading the inscription. White puffs accompanied his speech, fading into wisps of air as he watched. He chuckled. "That would make me homeless, wouldn't it? A stray. A loner. I have no one, after all. When have I ever needed anyone?"

("...the truth is, I've grown quite fond of you. And in many ways, you have shown me what it's like to have a son.")

He sighed. "Sentiment. Quite a weakness to have, isn't it? Drives people to do stupid things." He cocked his head to one side, as though considering, and then laughed into the wind. It was a harsh sound. "What I'm doing now, though—it _is_ stupid. No preparation, no double checking. Just another spontaneous visit. Dangerous. What if someone saw me? What if _he_ saw me? How would I explain it?"

("...Forgive me, but you've been dead for centuries.")

He stood there in a comfortable silence. It was quiet here, not a soul in sight. Moonlight fell on her headstone, he noticed, making the marble have an inner radiance. The light seemed to want nothing to do with him, leaving him cloaked in shadow.

A thought occurred to him, and he smiled without realizing it. It was a small, sad, smile.

"Maybe it isn't a matter of need, sentiment... Maybe it is something necessary to live."

After a moment, Eobard placed the lily on Miss Morgan's headstone and left. He knew he had no place here, not even in the dark.


End file.
